the back of her neck stood up. What you might call primal terror. She had no idea of the source of this fear. She just wanted to run away. I once saw her gallop down a steep hill in the Arboretum to escape a dog, a German shepherd puppy that had trotted up to her, its tail wagging, for a head pat. When I caught up to her, she was crying. “I don’t ever want to come back here again,” she said. “I can’t bear it.”
“It was a puppy, Kathryn,” I told her.
“I don’t care what it was. None of that matters,” she said. I had my arms around her, but then she turned so that she broke free of my embrace. She ran back to our car and locked herself inside, and I had to beg her to let me in. Man, I had to beg. And I ain’t too proud to beg. She had had her hair pinned up, but in her panic it had fallen down around her face, little tendrils, and her face was blotched with her crying. God, you know I hate to say it, but she was gorgeous like that, and I would have liked to help her. You need to do something for people when they get terrified, but terror is usually so vague, you can’t talk it out of anyone. What are you going to do when it doesn’t matter what you say?
But it’s a funny thing about other people’s phobias, when you don’t share them: you pick at them, like a scab. You want to remove them.
So on this day I’m telling you about, we were both free of our jobs, Kathryn and I, one of those late autumn midwestern Sundays, with a few golden leaves still attached to the trees, you know, last remnants, leaves soaked with cold rain and sticking to the car windshield or clinging to the branches they came from. She woke up and we made love and I said, I’ll make you breakfast, and I did, my specialty, scrambled eggs with onions and hot sauce, and then I made coffee, while she sat at the table, smiling, with her legs tucked under her. That was something she did. She sat in chairs with her legs tucked under her like that.
We lazed around and read the Sunday paper and I massaged her neck and then we made love again, and then she said, “I want to go somewhere. Toadie, take me somewhere today, please?” So I said, Okay, sure. We got dressed for the second or third time that day, and we cleared off the pizza boxes from the front seat of my car, do you remember it? that old Ford Escort with the bad clutch? and we drove off. By this time it was about noon, maybe a bit after that.
Without considering what I was doing, I found myself driving up toward the Humane Society, and I thought, the Humane Society? No, I really shouldn’t be doing this, but I kept driving because I was distracted by the leaves and by a knocking noise from the engine, which turned out to be the lifters, though I only discovered that later.
“Uh, excuse me, but where’re we going?” Kathryn asked.
“Up there,” I said in my cryptic secretive way. I did have those kennels and cages in mind but thought I should keep quiet about it. You can’t tell some women everything. You just can’t. Once we arrived, we parked in the lot, close to this animal bunker that the Humane Society is housed in, and you could hear the barking echoing off the walls and the trees. My God, could you hear it. A deaf person could hear it. It’s constant and unrelenting. When they’re in that condition, dogs have a kind of howl that’s close to human, and it makes your body grip up; your nerves get restless and uneasy, listening to dogs crying out, carrying on. The old alarms seep down into your bones, right into the marrow where fear is lodged. And what I did in the car was, I sneezed, and Kathryn watched me sneeze without saying anything. No gesundheit, no God bless you, no nothing. She let me sneeze. Then she waited some more. I waited, too.
“Is this what I think it is?” she asked. “Is this your great idea of where to take me on Sunday, our day off? Because, the thing is, I’m not going in there.”
“Kathryn,” I said, “it’s the Humane Society. They’re in cages.”
“No, Bradley,” she said. “I won’t. You probably mean well, probably, I’ll give you credit, but, no, I won’t go in there.”
“I’ll hold you,” I said.
“Hold me?”
“Honey, I’ll hold you around the shoulders. And I have an idea. Kathryn, I have an idea about what you should do when you get inside.”
“I don’t care what your idea is.”
“I know it. I know you don’t care. But let’s try. Come on, honey,” I said, and I took her hand for a moment. After we got out of the car, I could tell she was terrified because her knees were shaking. Have you ever seen a woman’s knees in a spasm? From fear? It is not a sight that lifts you up.
In the anteroom, which I remember because the floor was covered with green-mottled linoleum and also because the air was fragrant with a mixture of Lysol and Mr. Clean, the receptionist asked us what we were there for, and I said, well, we, that is, Kathryn and I, thought it was a little early to start a child, but maybe we could manage a dog. We were contemplating adopting a dog, I said, and Kathryn made a little sound, a sort of glottal grunt of apprehension, or a groan, but quietly, so that only I heard it. Guttural. And the receptionist, this young red-haired woman in a yellow jumpsuit, said, Well, it’s fortunate for you that these are visiting hours, so you can just go through that door there, and then turn to the left, and proceed down the hallway, and you’ll see them, the dogs I mean, because they’ll be on both sides. And if you want anything, you just come back and let me know.
So I put my right arm around Kathryn’s shoulders, and we went in through that door and down the hallway. It wasn’t very well lit. Bare bulbs screwed into the ceiling showered raw light downward so that the place looked like an aging army barracks. I don’t know what I was expecting. The floors were cement, so they could clean them easily of waste matter, and our shoes, our running shoes, were squeaking over that surface.
You can’t imagine the noise. They were all barking and howling and yapping, these dogs of every size, pure dog-desperation, muttmania, an army of refugee dogs, and we marched down that hallway between the cages, being roared at, like these dogs were screaming Save us save us, and I held on to Kathryn, and then we walked back, with me still holding on, and then we walked down the hallway a third time, and Kathryn said, “You can let go of me now,” so I did. I let go of her.
We kept walking back and forth. We weren’t about to get a dog. No. That wasn’t ever the idea, despite what I had said. We were just there, walking up and down that aisle at the Humane Society, for Kathryn’s benefit, and after about the fifth time it felt as if we were on inspection, in the dog barracks. Not all the dogs quieted down, but some of them did, and when they did, we began to peer at them, which we really hadn’t done before when they were making a racket and they were just generic dogs.
It’s when you start looking at dogs that you begin to notice their faces. Is that the word? Faces? Muzzles? And after all in a Humane Society they’re mostly mutts, so you don’t have anything like a breed to distract you, except for Dalmatians, because people are always buying Dalmatians, thinking that they’re cute, and then they get rid of them because they can’t stand how difficult and dumb they are. You do notice all the Dalmatians in the Humane Society.
Kathryn was still a bit scared, but by this time she was noticing their expressions. I didn’t prompt her. I didn’t say anything. And soon she said, I’ll bet that one likes a party. And I’d bet that one’s a bully. That one’s kind of stupid but has a good sense of humor. And that one, he’s a recluse. That one’s a pack animal. That one there, she’s stubborn and independent. That one likes to ride in cars. That one thinks all day about food.
She had her index finger pointed at them. And then she started to name them.
You’re Otis.
You’re Sophie.
You’re Lester.
You’re Duffy.
You’re Gordon.
You’re Daisy.
You’re Waverly.
And you, you handsome fellow, she said, pointing down at a dog on the other side of the bars, you, you’re Bradley.